Misplaced Tokens of Thanks
by KadiToka-Chii
Summary: Their lives were twisted together, parralled, except she’s done everything he could not.


**Misplaced Tokens of Thanks**

* * *

**||The New Vestroia writers can all go die from cancer and drug overdose and dimes dropped from the Eiffel Tower, the bastards. They committed the _unspeakable act_. UNSPEAKABLE.**

**MURDER GOES AGAINST THE LAW!! AND THE BIBLE!! The one time they attempt a 'death scene' (excluding Shun's mom), they not only do it HORRIBLY, but it's my number one fave character. BASTARDS. … I'm gonna end up ranting about this a lot, aren't I~?**

**The only thing they did right was having Spectra team up with Dan FOR HIS OWN NEFARIOUS PURPOSES. But if he goes through some magical transition from Smexy Hawt Bad Guy to Dorky Corny Good Guy through this, I'll stab something. If I had the guts to stab something.**

**||I do not own Bakugan. And now I wish that ANYONE except Spin Master and Sega, someone with actual ORIGINALITY owned the show. Seeing as Spin Master and Sega only bother with producing these crappy episodes to advertise their epic plastic toys of FAIL.**

**||Gus x Mira, Spectra, Resistance. Teensy bit of Spectra x Gus x Mira? Didn't _mean_ to put that in there. It's just extremely hard to keep it out. I meant to write it more as loyalty…**

**Starts off in Episode 20. **_**Completely**_**AU afterwards, because the New Vestroia writers are idiotic bastards and who can go suck it. I refuse to follow their pathetic excuse of a plot unless I can get something good out of it.**

**||Their lives were twisted together, parralled, except she's done everything he could not.**

* * *

His eyes are always fixated on him, on red and black and blinding power, and only him, behind whom he has his spot in this universe.

But everything else unworthy to be within the same view of magnificence incarnate wavers at the very edges of his vision. Like the bewilderment of his colleagues as _she_ trails in, just visible in the corner of his eye; an awkward figure of timid shame and discomfort.

He can see her in his mind. The hand that cradles her elbow, those dull eyes averted to the floor, the quiet horror flashing across her face as she is shown her imprisoned friends and finds herself subject to the taunts of her new comrades.

She isn't meant to be here. That is painfully clear.

But he keeps his eyes on red and black and blinding power, even as he forces himself to look directly at her, ignoring the forced composure in her greeting as he hands over rumpled silk and biting courtesy that falls swiftly into brusqueness.

He tears his eyes away and steps back as the fabric slips through his fingers, and he is no longer obliged to see her confusion and helplessness directly; they are the weaknesses that he cannot weed out – _right now_ – in order to make way for red and black and blinding power.

Her subliminal appeal for guidance in this strange, terrifying new world of hers, _theirs_, his.

* * *

He stands uneasily at the side of the disgraced outcast – he refuses to embrace her as his teammate; how bittersweet it is to discover that he is in the right as he watches the outcast sabotage everything he's worked for in horror. As she turns away from red and black and blinding power.

And he swears the last time he ever bothers to so much as glance at her will be the only time he reaches his hand out to her, and sends her back to where she belongs.

Away from him.

* * *

Red and black and blinding power, behind which he always thought he belongs.

And he could _just_ fool himself into thinking that's still where he belongs, because _his_ back is still to him, still straight and tall –

– despite the distance the two of them, despite the finality of that traitorous smirk, despite the fact that he pays no heed to him, gasping and coughing and crying for forgiveness on crimson-flecked earth.

Forgiveness from the ruby-eyed beast that bellows its victory.

Forgiveness from flickers of orange and yellow that creep curiously, _hungrily_ towards him.

But never forgiveness from himself, because he was the one who has failed.

Whimpers and hoarse pleads die off as red and black and blinding power drifts further away; no last glance back, an act of grace, a simple recognition of that dwindling existence.

All that's left is to accept the darkness that ensnares and condemns him, to close his mind to the hands that shake and brush against his arm gingerly, the whispers buzzing worriedly, so far off…

He allows himself to be lost.

* * *

The pillow is soft. The blankets are warm. The bed is comfortable. And that just makes it more unbearable, because these aren't his pillows, his blankets, his bed_, and this isn't where he should be, dammit._

He shouldn't be wearing strange, itchy clothing given to replace his ruined ones, shouldn't be pining for his position beside the Phantom, shouldn't be searching an endlessly vacant wall for an answer and a reason for his failure, punishment, and this crooked justice.

He's alone, and so much less than what he used to be; friendless, defenseless, worthless, no matter what she – unbearably close and warm – says as she sits at his side, meek and anxious but still inanely insistent as she wheedles him pointlessly, offers food that he only nibbles on mindlessly after she's left, rambles on with onesided conversations.

"Gus, I know how you're feeling. What Kei—what Spectra did to you was wrong, but, please, just _talk_ to me. I want to help you."

He wants her to shut up, just shut up, and never open her mouth again, because she's so wrong and doesn't understand –

"I just want you to know that no one—none of us hate you. Just… just know you have a place in the Resistance now, with _us_. We'll be more than happy to—"

Her words are cut off as the huddle beneath nearly-smooth sheets move around, for the first time in this unbearable week, as he opens his mouth and narrows his eyes –

– and he's blinded by open azure eyes, a hopeful smile, and a beautiful expression graced with hospitality. Not what he hopes for, not the red and black and…

He doesn't wait to see it fade away morosely. He looks away, and makes his resolute return to isolated animosity. "Shut up."

_And stop being so much_ more…

* * *

It's been another insensate week, and she still tries to reach him.

He does nothing more to dissuade her from her attempts, just as he does nothing to encourage her. The powerless soul her hand stretches for remains just out of range and watches on indifferently as she shakes his shoulder, disregarding the sudden rigidness.

"Gus, you have to snap out of it."

No returning snarl, no returning glare. Even as she pulls stubbornly, he twists his head away, no care for the discomfort. He'd take anything, _anything_, so long as he didn't have to see her face again, that lovely and compassionate and sympathetic –

– _allure _as her words harshen in bite and sting ("Gus, you're being ridiculous now!"), wearing thin ("Gus, it's time to get over it, you can't mope forever!"), and shattering barriers that were brittle to begin with. Two choked words pick their way through the wreckage and to the barrier's heavenly destroyer.

"If you're not going to put any effort into trying to make things better for yourself, then I don't know why _I_ should bother…!"

"I'm sorry."

* * *

Within the few days that he's cracked, she's already become his most treasured – confidant, ally, lifeline? He doesn't know, and it doesn't matter.

What matters is that she's here (even when he wasn't), she's helping (even when he didn't), and she won't leave (not like last time, not like he would have if he had the chance). She's the presence that consoles him, the voice that brings hope, the threadlike fingers interlacing his, and the world in between.

Within the few days that he's cracked, he's fallen hard.

* * *

He pulls away uncertainly with his lips tingling with her breath, her kindness and his self-loathing. He forces his eyes open, unable to do anything more – unable to shift his weight off the shoulder he's been leaning on, unable to offer an apology.

Her face is just visible underneath the shadows of the room, her heavy breaths muffled under his apprehension. He can't help but look at her sideways and wonder if she'll push him away, reprimand him, abandon him…

"Gus. Why don't we go see everyone else?"

* * *

He was once surrounded by noise.

Senseless noise, spiteful noise, steady noise; orders and anger, taunts and orders, arguments and malevolence and orders, echoing and neverending.

It's nothing like the bubbling, amiable chatter that rushes past as she leads him to the doorway, and it doesn't fit the smiles that swivel his way; it's all so much more... _foreign_. It may as well be silence.

"Well, look who finally crawled out of his hole!" He stiffens at Dan's loud greeting, friendly to the point of being dangerous. Mira's soft fingers, curled around his wrist, tug slightly. "Hey man, you can't stand there forever! We're playing _Assassin's Creed_, you gotta try it, it's _so_ awesome…"

"_Dan!_" A shock of electric blue hair springs up from behind the large couch and pivots around to glare at the boy, hand rising in the air threateningly. "Think you can have a bit more _tact_ than that?!"

"What did I do, Runo? All I asked was whether or not he wanted to play a videogame with us!"

"Are you that _clueless?!_ Try being a bit more _thoughtful_, you dunce!"

"I'm sick of this." Ace breaks into the argument with his disgusted announcement as he throws a game controller to the floor sulkily, glaring at the wide TV screen as though it was its fault his character had just suffered a pathetic death. "How the hell are you supposed to _not_ die?"

"Ooh! Let me try again!" The Darkus Brawler was quick to draw his feet onto the armchair as Baron scrambles for the abandoned controller, snatching it up gleefully. "Just wait, this time I won't get killed!"

"Didn't you say that the last twenty-three times…?"

"You _are_ awake! Thank goodness!"

He steps back in surprise at the delighted squeak of a voice as his eyes snap down towards the short, beaming boy, blinking as the bright eyes behind the glasses examine him fastidiously.

"I hope you find your quarters to be up to par. I tried to ensure that you got the best guest room at our disposal. And if you need anything more to make your stay here more comfortable, you simply need to as—"

"Oh my _god_, he lives~!" Another terrifyingly loud squeal, and the short boy staggers out of the way as indigo orbs bob in front of him, too close for comfort. "Hey, emo boy~, you finally gonna cheer up?" Before Gus could either answer or shun her, the dark-skinned girl's eyes flicker towards Mira. "Like, you must be some sort of miracle worker or something! Whatcha have to do to get him to come out, make out?"

"_Julie!_" The girl titter as the exasperated voices of Ace, Dan and Runo rise up in unison, turning around to stick her tongue out at them; Mira's blush goes unnoticed.

"Er… um, Gus?" Mira pulls his wrist again, watching him out of the corner of her eyes as everyone else tries not to stare. "Are you going to come in?"

He doesn't move.

"Gus…?"

He cannot find the words.

"Hey man, you don't look so good."

He doesn't answer.

"Are you okay?"

He cannot disturb this silence.

* * *

They are once again in the shallow comfort of darkness and soundlessness. Their arms are tangled, backs curved against the wall and feet dangling off the edge of the bed as they listen for the imprint that six soft words leave on the air. The moment that he has hoped for and against is approaching.

She shifts uncomfortably at his side, fingers intuitively reaching for his. "Why?"

A good question, the answer of which he isn't certain of. Was it because she had dragged him out of his bitterness? He thought that could be it, but it didn't feel right. Maybe because she had offered him a home and some comfort, had ensured that he was treated kindly upon arrival? Likely, but he had been too busy wallowing in self-pity to really appreciate her.

Was it simply because he had _met_ her?

Definitely not.

His voice is shaky, ashamed. "I don't know. I know that I shouldn't, though." He immediately snatches back that last sentence. "Ah – I mean, it's just… you're _you_."

A few seconds pulse by contemplatively, matching their unsynchronized hearts beat for beat. "Define that."

His head jerks towards her in bewilderment, shocked and wondering. "Define…?"

Looking away again, he focused his eyes on their toes. The whispers are directed at them, meant for her, and he prays she doesn't hear them because he doesn't want to admit this.

"You're… incredible. And kind, selfless, brave – and you're his sister. You… you betrayed –"

Fingers squeeze his condolingly, and he flinches as her other hand reaches across to brush his cheek, coaxing him into looking at her. Even in the darkness that he always insists on, her rueful eyes and smile hurt his undeserving eyes. "I'm sorry."

Heart contracting, his fingers strive to reach up and glide across her cheek, pull her face towards his so that he can lose his common sense again; those two words are supposed to liberate him – his chest only feels more encumbered. These feelings released are supposed to make everything feel lighter, freer – they only serve to make him feel guiltier.

"Gus?" His gaze shifts constantly. On her softening expression, on their pale hands overlapping each other, into faraway corners where his eyes play tricks on him; he can almost see a lingering reminder of red and black and something undefinably _blinding_…

It disappears when lips, like the welcoming warmth of velvet, press against his cheek shyly.

"I think I could love you too."

* * *

It's the penultimate trial, and his second chance.

His fingers are gripping Mira's wrist too hard, but she doesn't cry out or complain and he doesn't dare to loosen up. To do so would lead to him faltering, and then this devilish nightmare would gobble them up as it had always wished to. He can't afford to let the two of them be lost in this boiling, crumbling world of theirs.

Smoke twists in a dense wall, and the only things they can see are the ever-changing arcs of flames that encircle them entirely – but for a small gap, beyond which they see nothing but sparks against billowing black. For all they know, it leads to only certain ruin. It's also their only hope for survival.

There's no telling which of them took the initiative; both sets of feet are pounding, frantic and irregular, for that shrinking space. The heat fondles their cheeks, too harsh to trust, as they close their eyes and their mouths to break through, they're safe –

"My, look at you two. I never quite expected such a couple. Should I give my blessing?"

– _they're anything but_.

He stands as a radiant silhouette – still so straight and tall, _regal_ – and he's framed by the hell he's conjured; the red and black and blinding power is aglow. The only thing that has changed since that last day is that now, he faces Gus with that welcoming smirk, and it is (appallingly) a relief for the sting in his eyes.

"_Spectra!_" He notices – numbly – that Mira no longer stumbles over the name as she pulls him back, moving forward as though hoping to defend him.

The other man pays no heed to the steely-eyed girl, gaze entirely devoted to the ashen boy behind her. "Now Gus, what exactly are you doing with my little sister? You haven't betrayed me, have you?"

It's a wonder that his ghost of a voice could be heard through the –senseless, spiteful, steady – roar of the flames and the violent pang in his chest. "Mast – you left me to die." A wretched excuse.

Spectra tilts his head to the side, composed, mouth still twisted up curiously. "I thought that you of all people would realize that it was necessary at the time." A justification Gus wants to believe.

"Shut up, Spectra." Her voice, full of the boldness he wishes he had, rings sharply in defense, protective over what she's worked so hard to heal. "He no longer belongs with you."

Spectra chuckles throatily, cool with confidence as his arm comes up to his chest, Gauntlet flashing in preparation. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we?"

Something delays Gus from following the action as Mira does; her eyes are full of innocent reliance as she glances at him, smile gentle. "Gus, are you ready?"

_No,_ is what he wants to say as he nods stoically, struggling to keep his gaze on this girl he has come to adore and away from the man he has always adored. He never was ready for this.

* * *

Two words, unspoken, imprint the parched air; she can't hear them as she falls with a shriek, and he can't say them as Vulcan rolls by his feet and Spectra laughs, glorified. "I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd sabotage Mira the same way she did the last time you battled together."

Had that really been his intention, or had he simply resigned himself to being obsolete and burdensome? It's another thing he just _doesn't know_. "Master…"

"Gus, _don't!_"

She's sprawled on the ground, trying to raise herself on her elbows only to fall down gasping, broken and beaten and still so _incredible_. Their eyes meet – this is the last time, he knows – and once again he can't see anything but those tender pools that had tried to give him the world he had lost. His most treasured confidant, ally, lifeline, and what he wishes was his one and only still strains to save him as he stands there, unraveling.

"Please, Gus, don't do this, I don't want to see you get hurt again…"

Something cold slithers up his throat, seizing it shut. _You won't get to see me get hurt, Mi–_

"G-Gus… there's still hope…" That is a lie. His hope had been her voice; her cracked, hoarse, and dying voice.

"Give it up, Mira." The stronger voice is speaking now, velvet and welcoming as the choice is made with a forsaken step forward, back to where he belongs. "He never deserved you."

_That's right_. Gus had never deserved anything; most definitely not her. It was only selfishness that bade him to let their last two words be heard.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

**||… I have never gone through so many revisions and editing with one fic. *-* I originally had it in second person, but found myself getting stuck. So then I had to go an change it all into third person. And then I kept switching between present tense and present tense, and in the end decided to go with past… though there might be a lot of points where I slipped up.**

**… Critique as cruelly as you can. Let me know if all the effort I put into this was worth it.**


End file.
